


but did you really think i'd shut an open door?

by possessedradios (orphan_account)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (But I Saw The Other Fics This Fandom Has And Mine Is Really Fucking Tame), (but I am but a humble gay so what can I do. turns out I can't resist Fuckhands McMike), (y'know I really tried to dislike Michael), Here Have An Actual Serious Tag: There’s Some Blood And Vague Mentions Of Violence, M/M, Twisting Reality As A Flirting Technique, also featuring a writing style that gets increasingly messier with the word count, but it's ok because it fits the Spiral's Aesthetic™
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-09-02 20:25:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16794109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/possessedradios
Summary: Jon doesn’t know what he should call the whole thing between Michael and himself — he only knows that it makes no sense at all. But then again, that seems to be par for the course.





	but did you really think i'd shut an open door?

**Author's Note:**

> Heyyy, so maybe everyone is grossely OOC, maybe they aren’t, I don’t know and I honestly don’t care because writing this was so much fun.
> 
> Title is taken from "It's Only Life" by The Shins.
> 
> Oh, and… If the timeline doesn’t seem to make sense or seems off to you: Don’t worry about it too much. :>

Jon buries his head in his hands when an orange door appears right in front of his desk. 

“Not now, Michael,” he mutters, “Christ, why does everyone _hate_ me—”

The door should, by all laws of physics and reality, slam into the dark wood upon being pushed open, but it doesn’t. It doesn’t just clip through it, either, it just … doesn’t. There’s a faint glow coming from inside.

“You fascinate me, Archivist.”

Jon nods without looking up, because well, of course; he’s the bloody archivist— no, apologies, he’s The Bloody Archivist, and everyone is so annoyed by his questions and so invested in his abilities and—

The words register with a delay. He blinks a little and lifts his head. 

He’s never been good at understanding when he’d been flirted with. As far as he is concerned, it happened exactly once, namely the one time Georgie explicitly told him she _was_ flirting with him, frustrated and amused, in a slightly drunken haze, at a party. But that’s clearly not right, because she’d been trying to flirt with him for two and a half months. That’s what she had said, laughing against his shoulder, hugging him, irritated by his obliviousness until she called it ‘endearing’ and wasn’t irritated anymore.

How can you not have noticed, she’d asked, I called you fascinating, no one calls anyone else fascinating if they’re not trying to flirt.

He squints at Michael.

Michael laughs, and Jon shivers. He will never get used to it; it sounds all the world as if it could shatter a dozen different Universes all at once.

“Frustrating to navigate the human version of social cues and expectations, impossible to keep up with the monster’s ones?” it says lightly, and it’s a question and it isn’t, and then, for some reason that is way beyond Jon’s grasp of logical actions and consequences, it disappears through the baby blue door into the darkness behind it. The door is gone within a second. As if Michael hadn’t been there at all, or as if its whole business had consisted of annoying him for half a minute.

Its words stay with him the whole day, and he finds himself offended by the easy, casual implication that Michael seems to think it can read him so easily. More offended by the fact that it seems to be true.

Who’s the Watcher now.

* * *

He finishes a statement full of meat and deformed bodies and is almost annoyed by how easy to classify this one was, and then he—

Well, then he must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knows is that he’s awoken by the sound of a creaking door. It makes him wake with a start and he looks around, eyes bleary for a moment until he readjusts his glasses and blinks a few times.

The door is dark green, today. Some quietly hysteric part of his brain wonders if the ever-changing paint serves as a twisted kind of mood ring. Belatedly, Jon realizes that he must have grabbed the letter opener sitting on his desk upon jolting awake, unthinking. He's gripping it so hard that his knuckles are white. For a moment, he wonders just how traumatized he is. Then he decides he doesn't want to think about it. He still can't bring himself to let go of the potential makeshift weapon. 

Michael laughs, and Jon shivers. He will never get used to it; it sounds all the world as if it could shatter a dozen different Universes all at once.

When it steps out of the door, Jon catches the glimpse of the hallway behind it, only that… Only that it looks like a tube station instead of an actual hallway, but… His eyes widen as he tries to take in as much of the details as possible, trying to make sense of what he’s seeing. There’s nothing obviously amiss, but looking at it, trying to focus his gaze on something — it makes him feel sick. The angles seem off, don’t add up, don’t make sense, and the platform is— is _wrong_ ; it’s— 

The door clicks shut. The aftershock of Michael’s laughter is still faintly echoing through the room as it speaks again. 

“Ohh, Archivist, there’s doors you’d do better not to glimpse behind.” It grins. Everything about the expression is uncanny, and Jon notices that it's got very sharp teeth. He feels lightheaded. There’s a taste like copper in his mouth. “But I suppose curiosity rather lies in your nature these days, doesn’t it? Does it frustrate you, looking upon something your fragile mind can’t comprehend? Does it _hurt_?”

Jon tries to shake off the feeling of nausea and glares at it. “Why are you here?” he Asks instead of answering its own question. 

(The answer, however, is yes, he’s uncomfortably aware of that.)

“Everyone likes a nice surprise visit,” Michael says, and then frowns a little. The grin doesn’t leave its face. The expressions don’t fit together. “You and your Questions.”

“I don’t know what you _want_ from me,” Jon says. The words come out sounding more accusing than anticipated, and even more defensive. 

“Hmmm,” Michael makes. It reaches out slowly, and Jon stares, watches, very still, as it grabs Jon’s hand — the right one, the one still slightly sore, half-scarred already; angry, bright red burn marks. 

“You really ought to take better care of your hands, Archivist,” it says, its eyes never leaving Jon’s. It trails its fingers over his hand. Jon almost laughs at that, his own eyes automatically drawn to his other hand, the one Michael stabbed, the one still clutching the letter opener—

He freezes. 

He listened to Sasha’s statement, had heard about all the reasons she called Michael “Tall, Blond and Monster” instead of the more flattering alternative, and stranger things have happened in this building by now, truly, so he shouldn’t be surprised, it shouldn’t be catching him so off guard — but it does. Michael’s fingers — normal looking, human, almost, if Jon didn’t know better — trail over his hand gently. The slightly blurry, distorted reflection on the polished metal of the letter opener, however, tells a different story. In it, Michael’s hands are— anything but normal, anything but _human_ , sharp, claw-like blades, and— and they tear open Jon’s skin where it is touching him; they slice him open, there’s blood welling up and pouring out from the cuts, red flesh and white bones and for just a split second, Jon is sure that he can feel it, the sharp, blinding pain—

The letter opener clatters to the table, and he yanks his hand away. The sick feeling in his stomach is back and stays there even as he stares at his unscathed hand (unscathed, of course, save from Jude Perry’s mark). He notices with a delay of seconds that he’s standing, the chair he’d been sitting on toppled over on the floor. He takes a step back, then another, stares at Michael. Part of him notes just how terrified he is, right now, another part keeps telling him that he isn’t terrified enough, that he’s too detached from the situation, that he is doing this wrong.

Michael looks back at him, and if Jon didn’t know any better, if such a display of emotion wasn’t way too human for something that’s so far from being anything but… If Jon didn’t know better, he’d classify its expression as disappointment. He’d never been good at this, though, and he doubts his racing heart and the deafening sound of his blood rushing in his ears do anything to help.

“Your assistant,” Michael says, in an almost sing-song-y voice, “I liked her. Well. I liked her before she became something else. She held my hand.”

Jon remembers, yes. Remembers Sasha’s statement, of course he does, he remembers every single bloody thing that anyone’s ever told him, way too vividly. He remembers her words, remembers how matter-of-factly she’d told that part, remembers her describing the feeling of her hand in Michael’s — that it’d felt like wet leather, unnaturally heavy and sharp. 

He remembers that it had told Sasha it wanted to be friends.

“Get out,” he rasps.

And to his surprise, Michael does. It smiles at him, and then it takes a step back, it waves at him and opens the door without looking, and then it’s gone.

Jon’s hands are shaking when he picks up the chair and sits down again, eyes darting around the room for a moment before he gradually relaxes. He—

He wakes with a start. Again. 

He looks around, eyes bleary for a moment until he readjusts his glasses and blinks a few times. His hands are still shaking as he lifts them to examine them, his skin still untouched, no cuts, no drops of blood. The letter opener is lying next to him on the table where he dropped it.

He curses under his breath and rubs at his eyes for a moment, glares at the spot where the door had been just a few moments ago. It takes him a second to recognize the faint whirring sound as the one of a running tape recorder.

He’s sure he turned it off.

* * *

“I am displeased.”

Yes, Jon almost says, you don’t have to be quasi-omniscient to notice as much. Elias’s brows are furrowed and he’s tapping his fingers against his desk, impatient and something else.

“What about?” he asks slowly when it becomes apparent that he’s not going to say any more. 

“I can’t say I quite approve of the company you choose to keep these days.”

Jon almost laughs, because it _is_ rather funny, isn’t it? “Michael,” he says and earns a dismissive sound.

“The Spiral,” Elias corrects. “But, yes. Really, Jon. You should know better than to try and befriend something like—”

“I’m not the one trying to befriend him!” Jon says, surprised by the force of his own words. “He—” Jon cuts himself off quickly because, no, that’s not true. He starts again. “ _It_ is the one who— who keeps showing up in my office for reasons that are way beyond me. I don’t know what it _wants_ from me. I’m not sure it knows itself!”

“And yet you keep humoring it.” Elias’s voice is calm, because it always is, because he is, of course, the one who Knows, the one who Sees, passive and impassive even when _displeased_.

Jon wonders what exactly it is that Elias dislikes so much about it. For all he knows, this is about possession and belonging; is about Jon being the avatar for something he can’t begin to understand even now, even while reading statements and gathering information to please a God he didn’t choose himself. For all he knows, this is simply about him being The Archivist. He’s suddenly very tired.

“Stop stalking me and do something about it, if it bothers you so much,” he says and then leaves Elias’s office without waiting for an answer. He doubts he would have gotten one, anyway.

* * *

It’s in his office once more. The door looks terribly normal today, dark brown wood with wild grain. Martin has just left his office, after setting down a cup of tea on his desk and rattling on about how Jon is working too much for a little while, telling him to make sure to get some rest soon, after all it’s past six already. Jon had decided against pointing out that Martin is still here, too — mostly because something tells him that no matter the reason Martin would have provided, the truth probably is that he’s staying because of and for Jon. It’s endearing, a little bit, the way he continues to try and make sure that Jon is as comfortable as he possibly can be; Martin seems to stoically ignore the circumstances of their employment and the less than conventional work environment. He just keeps making tea and buying biscuits. Endearing — and something Jon doesn’t think he deserves.

“Getting caught up in our own head, are we? No wonder, really, they’re such _messy_ places, so full of hopes and doubts and memories and, oh, even more so for you, isn’t that true? Dreams and … nightmares.”

Jon blinks and notices only now that he’s been staring at Michael without really realizing. It sounds amused, he thinks, and says, “I’m really just glad you didn’t show up two minutes earlier.” He doesn’t think the timing was a lucky coincidence, though. 

“What are you _doing here_?” he Asks when seconds tick by and Michael doesn’t speak, doesn’t move.

“Everyone likes a nice surprise vis—”

“Stop it!” Jon says. “What do you _want_?”

“To talk,” Michael answers simply. Jon pauses, stares at him. This is the truth, it must be.

Michael laughs, and Jon shivers.

“Are you really so desperate?” Jon asks — no, he Asks — and there’s a hint of desperation in his own voice, now. He doesn’t understand why Michael thinks it’s his specific company that is worth its time. And he didn’t, of course, mean to compel, not this time, but he _did_ , and Michael… well, Michael answers.

“Oh, no, I’m not,” it says with a smile that isn’t quite a smile; the expression is just a tad too wide and shows a little too many teeth, “but everyone else’s company is just so terribly _dull_ , Archivist. Besides, I have to enjoy your presence while I still can, don’t you agree? I doubt you’ll live for much longer.”

Silence, for a second, two. Jon nods sharply. “Ah. Of course.”

“This distresses you,” Michael says. An observation, not a question. Jon isn’t sure how accurate it is, his emotions feel far away, not quite within reach for analysis. And he isn’t sure how much Michael sees, how well it really knows him by now. It seems to think it sees and knows a lot. He doesn’t answer.

“Maybe you should stop Asking Questions if you’re not sure you’ll like the Answers.”

Jon nods.

Michael is gone, a while later; Jon can’t say how long. Time seems to skip around and pass weirdly whenever it’s there, which, he supposes, makes sense, considering what power it handles, or represents. 

It is strange, he thinks, how drawn Michael seems to be to him, when he really considers the Spiral and how it operates. Deception, lies, letting others doubt their minds and sanity. And then there’s him, bound to the Beholding which wants to Know and See and Understand. He can’t think of a combination that seems less compatible. Maybe it’s the nature of the Spiral that makes Michael seek out something so profoundly different. Maybe it’s the idea of the potential for chaos that has him keep coming back.

Either way, Elias doesn’t like it.

Jon thinks he can appreciate that, at least. Elias’s resentment, and… And the fact that Michael has never actively done anything to hurt him. His standards used to be higher, he thinks, but a lot has happened since.

* * *

“You should hate me,” Jon says as soon as the door appears in the break room of the Institute. It's painted black. There's a faint melody bleeding into the room, squeezing itself through the tiny crack between the door and the door frame. It's 10:03 am. He should be somewhere else. He doesn't like the break room; too many people, too many conversations. He gets overwhelmed.

“Should I, now?” 

“Elias hates you.”

Michael laughs. Jon quietly looks at him. 

“Awww, Archivist, no. See, dear—”

Jon shivers. It's 10:28 am and he recognizes the music from beyond the door as the Rolling Stones. 

“—he hates what I stand for. His master hates what I stand for.”

That’s what he’d thought, yes. But… 

“Our master.”

“Shouldn't you be the one hating me, then?” 

“Maybe I do.”

The door is gone.

The break room is empty safe from shifting shadows in the corners that disappear whenever Jon tries to look at them. It smells of fresh paint and the walls looks wet. It's 7:37 am.

* * *

“The Spiral might not, but I love your mind, Archivist, and I'm fascinated.”

Jon nods without looking up from his statement; he just keeps reading.

* * *

All the street lights are glowing eyes blinking back at him.

Jon is standing at the open window of his flat, smoking a cigarette and trying to ignore the biting cold wind when he notices. The sky is full of dark clouds that make the light look weird anyway, so he needs a minute to categorize just what exactly it is that suddenly feels so wrong. Then his eyes land on one of the street lamps, and it winks at him.

He’s not startled. He’s not even especially surprised. He calmly takes a drag of his cigarette, and by the time he breathes out the smoke, he’s managed to recognize the feeling inside his chest as anger. He drops the only half-smoked cigarette out of the window and slams it shut.

“Michael,” he says. His voice is even and despite his anger he’s so calm; it almost surprises him. Is that how Elias feels?

The door appears right in front of him. Bright yellow. Jon does something he wouldn’t have thought he’d ever have the courage to — he is, after all, not a brave man, that’s something he’s admitted to himself months and months ago. But that’s also when he’d realized that he’s stubborn. He reaches out and touches the doorknob. It’s ice cold, but he doesn’t flinch. He turns it and pulls; opens the door before Michael gets the chance to do it first.

If it is surprised by Jon’s unusual display of something akin to boldness, it doesn’t let it show. It just steps out of the door — a sharp wind follows it through, not unlike the one that’s blowing through the streets of London right now. It looks at Jon, the by now almost familiar smile on its face. “Eager today, aren’t w—”

“What. Is. This?” Jon interrupts it, gesturing towards the window. A quick look confirms that the lights are still eyes. Glowing yellow-ish-white, blinking, staring, patient.

“Hmmm,” Michael makes, and looks as well, as if it didn’t know, as if it wasn’t its own doing, as if it had to see what he is talking about, first. It shrugs, eventually, and maybe it thinks it’s _obvious_ and Jon just too damn _stupid_ to understand, and Christ, perhaps he is. “Small gift?” it finally answers. “I thought you might appreciate the symbology.”

“I really, really don’t!” he says, still gesturing towards his window.

There’s silence for a few seconds, and then Michael’s smile turns into a grin. “I understand,” it says. “I would grow tired of constantly being watched. It was silly of me to assume…” It trails off and cocks its head to one side. “Better?”

Jon stops glaring at it for long enough to cast a look out of the window. The eyes are gone, and so are the street lights. In their stead, there’s tall figures, spindly, shadow-like creatures; something Jon pictured whenever he’d read statements dealing with the Dark, about people being snatched by _something_ lurking there. They all emanate a soft, orange glow, gentler than the lamps, gentler and more disturbing. Jon can’t look away for almost half a minute, and suddenly the horror is there, and it threatens to take him over, and he’s sure that this is exactly how everyone else dealing with the Spiral must feel.

“Archivi—”

Michael’s voice is what brings him back and allows him to tear his eyes away from the abominations. He shakes his head. “No!” he says, and is, for the second time, taken aback by how strong his reaction is. “No, Michael, this isn’t— Stop altering reality for me!”

A lot of Jon’s anger vanishes once he tries to make sense of the look on Michael’s face and fails. Without the emotion, he’s mostly tired. “What—”

“I think I’m sad,” Michael says. It sounds thoughtful and almost surprised. “That you don’t appreciate what I do. That you don’t seem to enjoy my company at all. If it were anyone else, it would be _fun_.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says. The words slip out of his mouth before he can think about it. Maybe he really is, he’s not sure anymore. “I’m just… I don’t understand. Michael, what do you want?”

There’s no compulsion behind the question, but the way Michael hesitates before answering makes Jon think (or hope, maybe) that the answer he receives is the truth anyway.

“You’re so concerned with what I want, Archivist. I told you already, didn’t I?” Slowly, Michael’s mouth twitches into a grin, exposing teeth that look almost normal, almost. Jon is careful to not look back at the window, is scared of what the reflection might show him.

“I want to spend time with you,” Michael continues. “I want… I want you to go mad with fear and anger and frustration and, oh, I want you to stay sane, I want to give all the tiny slivers of sanity you’ve already lost back to you. Do you believe I can? I sometimes think I could, Archivist.”

While talking, it starts walking, taking a few slow, measured steps around him. It lifts a hand. “I want the push and pull of your thoughts and emotions; when you’re the ocean, I’m the moon; ebb and flow, Archivist, there’s antitheses that belong together.”

It’s behind him, now. Jon can feel its eyes on the back of his head, and then he can feel its hand, trailing over his shoulders. The sensation is all wrong, it feels human, but there’s something _else_ there. He can feel the sharp sensation of what is its true form, like a shadow, as if that true form was half a parallel universe away, just an inch to the left of his own reality. He can feel them, can feel them scratching over the fabric of his shirt, slicing it open, can feel them on his skin, ice cold, the touch delicate— 

Its steps are silent on the carpet when it finishes its circle and moves to stand in front of Jon again. It looks at its hand. For some reason, it looks no longer human. Too big, too sharp, too dangerous and deadly, this is what it actually looks like. Jon quietly stares at it, feels detached from the whole situation and at the same time feels like he can see everything with a clarity he very rarely experiences. There’s blood, his blood. His shoulder hurts. He only registers it once he’s sure the red shimmer on its fingers can’t be anything else, and for some reason, it doesn’t scare him. It feels logical. And Michael is still wearing that grin. It lifts its hand further. Jon watches as it licks his blood from his fingers, and for some reason, it doesn’t scare him. It feels logical. 

“Maybe I just want to be friends, Archivist. But I know you don’t. You’ve made that very clear.” 

He no longer hopes it’s the truth, for a variety of reasons, but most of all because it doesn’t make sense, if it is, and— 

And, well, that would make sense, he supposes; he has to constantly remind himself to keep in mind who — what — Michael is

(because it seems far too human, somehow)

but it’s… 

“Unsatisfactory, isn’t it? Not good enough, I’d presume, for the Archivist? You want clear answers, I know. But I’m really not the person you should be talking to, then.” Michael’s words sound amused. “Tell me, since you’re so fond of questions, will you allow me to ask one myself?”

“…You can try,” Jon says quietly.

Michael looks pleased at that. It doesn’t hesitate before it speaks, and the words come easily, its speech is so fluid that Jon almost believes it must have prepared this question, must have thought this through and put the right words together.

“The Eye isn’t cruel, Archivist, and I think you know that. It wants to love you, just like the Distortion loves me. Why don’t you accept it? Why do you choose to stumble on like this, torn between two extremes that clash together so violently? Why don’t you embrace the role that has been given to you and that fits you so well?” Michael laughs. Universe-shattering. Jon doesn’t think he minds anymore. “What do you think it _is_ that fascinated me about you? I can see how much you enjoy your destiny in theory, and yet you do everything you can in order to separate yourself from it in practice. So tell me: Why, _Jonathan Sims_ , do you cling to your humanity so desperately when it makes you so miserable?”

“I…” Jon cuts himself off, shakes his head. Something feels wrong, too heavy. Maybe it’s his own body.

“Not very becoming for the server of the Ceaseless Watcher to close his eyes in the face of the truth, is it?” Michael is close, very, very close; Jon can feel its breath on his face. He doesn’t know at what point he’s closed his eyes. He didn’t even notice until Michael pointed it out, voice low and challenging.

And when he answers, he does so without thinking. “Maybe I’m just scared. I always felt lost, never felt like I had a purpose. Now I do, because someone else decided I’m— perfect to fill this role and… And perhaps I’m afraid of just how easy it would be to accept it. Or perhaps I’m afraid of the expectations that come with it; afraid I wouldn’t be able to live up to them. I don’t _know_ , Michael.” 

He forces himself to open his eyes.

Michael seems more fond of the symbology than Jon — the eyes are back. They’re inside his apartment, covering every wall, dozens, hundreds of them. They blink slowly, all together in synch, in a gesture that illuminates the room in a way that makes Jon’s chest ache strangely. The light isn’t bright or dull, it’s unobtrusive and colorful; colors Jon has never seen before and finds himself unable to name or describe. He’s not sure they even exist. Letting this light wash over himself… It feels almost familiar, feels almost like home-sickness. 

“What a beautiful answer,” Michael says quietly. The smile on its face is the most genuine Jon has ever seen.

And suddenly he’s very tired again. He returns Michael’s look and slowly lifts a hand to rub his face.

“Are you … flirting with me?” He’s not sure he really meant to ask, but he doesn’t, to his own surprise, immediately regret the question, either. He wants to know, wants at least _some_ clarity.

Michael doesn’t seem surprised about the inquiry. Its expression doesn’t change. “Oh, but Archivist, what I’m doing is exactly what you want it to be.”

“…You’re flirting,” Jon decides, and then decides that he does not want to think about it further. He laughs once, a sound void of any actual amusement. “Why? Why flirt with me, why try and befriend me when your master and mine clash together so violently?”

There’s no way it doesn’t notice the similarity in Jon’s question and its own; not with how blatant he voices it and puts emphasis on it, but it doesn’t sound bothered when it answers — and of course it mimics Jon’s answer in its own. “Maybe I’m never quite scared enough, Archivist.”

Its hand is back to normal — or, well, as close as it gets — when Michael places it against Jon’s cheek. Jon doesn’t understand, and he doesn’t move, and then Michael drops his hand and turns around. It disappears through the door. A second later, the door is gone, too. 

It takes Jon a while to notice that all the clocks in his apartment show a different time. He ends up texting Georgie, and she sends him the correct time without asking. The eyes are still there, watching him, illuminating his rooms. They don’t vanish until the next morning, and even then, with all of them gone, he still feels watched.

That, at least, is something he understands; something he’s grown used to.

* * *

Michael laughs, and he stops thinking.

Jon reaches out and holds its hand. 

Michael grins at him. Or maybe it's a smile. The walls around them in his office seem to shrink, seem to tighten, drawing closer, crushing, there's blood on them, it mixes with wet paint, drips down onto the floor where it flickers and disappears, there's the sound of static and then the floor disappears as well. This should probably distress him. It doesn’t.

Jon stares at their hands. Solid and there and real. He tries to tell himself he just wanted to check if Sasha's assessment of what it feels like was accurate. (It was, and wasn’t. It feels like wet leather and unnaturally heavy and sharp, but at the same time, incredibly human and soft and normal.)

He tries to tell himself that this is part of Michael's game; that it tries to confuse him, that it makes him do things he doesn't want to. 

But lies are Michael's specialty, not his. His specialty, he supposes, is the truth. The truth is, he has no idea how long it has been since he last held someone’s hand. An incredibly silly, childish, naive part of himself is tempted to say this out loud, but he seriously doubts Michael would be interested in the truth.

The thought makes him feel sick. He still can’t think of a combination that seems less compatible.

The floor underneath them is still gone, and he feels safe. 

Jon reaches out and holds its hand. 

His thoughts are racing, and Michael silently looks at him, expression neutral.

* * *

There is a door in his office. It appears out of nowhere. It’s painted a rusty red.

Jon looks up, looks at it, Sees, and he Knows and Doesn’t Know and … and he feels weird. Off. 

The door swings open without a sound, and it’s a woman’s voice that greets him. 

“Archivist,” Helen says.

Jon is sure that he can feel Elias Watching.

“Where’s…” he starts, and then trails off. Helen shakes her head.

“I’m still not used to this, I think, but you really don’t seem to want to talk about it” she says. It sounds desperate and it doesn’t. 

Jon stares at her and wants to say, no, this is all wrong, this isn't right— He was with _Michael_ , he was with Michael after Elias had murdered Leitner, right here, in the Archives, in his office, and Elias had voiced his disapproval over it, they had _talked_ about it, had mentioned Michael's name, and that was _after_ Elias had murdered Leitner, after he had spent time at Georgie's place, after Elias’s confession, after returning to the Institute, after— after Nikola— and he’d had his new flat already, they had stood by the window— 

“Hmm,” Helen makes. 

She was the one who saved him from Nikola, of course.

“Michael…” Jon says. His voice is shaking. 

Michael had offered to kill him, kindly, gently, just a single step, from one side of the door frame to the other. He’d agreed. This isn't right. 

“...is gone,” Helen says. 

“But…”

But he'd stayed at Georgie's, and then he'd been back at the Archives, and he had spent time with Michael, his hand had still been burned from his encounter with Jude Perry—

This can't be right. This is all wrong. 

Helen smiles, not quite sad, not quite twisted. Or maybe she has been smiling the whole time; maybe she just hasn’t stopped. He’s not sure. Her fingernails tap against the doorframe. She shrugs. 

“Don't worry about it too much,” she whispers— 

—and Jon whispers back, “Fuck off.”

She does. The door goes with her. 

Jon stares down at his desk and tries to ignore the soft whirring sound of his tape recorder.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m @possessed-radios on tumblr, and my podcast sideblog is @shortwaveattentionspan; come talk to me about how incredibly valid Michael's flirting strategy is (Jon is a Coward).


End file.
